The sound of the applause was deafening. Ji-hoon stood frozen, his fingers still resting lightly on the keys of the grand piano, the echo of the last note slowly dissipating into the air. His mind was a blur, a storm of thoughts crashing against the walls of his consciousness. It had been years since he had performed like this, years since he had felt the rush of an audience's approval, but now, standing at the center of it all, he felt... nothing. The applause wasn't real to him—not in the way it used to be. It was like a sound from someone else's world, a distant echo of a life he could never truly return to.
His chest tightened, and a part of him wanted to scream, to break away from the stage and disappear into the shadows. But the applause didn't stop. It continued, relentless, as though they were waiting for something more from him.
"Ji-hoon!" Joon-won's voice cut through the chaos, pulling him from his thoughts. He was there, standing just offstage, his expression a mix of pride and concern. "That was incredible! The audience loved it!"
Ji-hoon didn't answer right away. Instead, he took a deep breath, his senses overwhelmed by the sounds of the crowd and the still lingering scent of the cologne that had followed him since that night. The fragrance was faint but unmistakable. It clung to the air like a shadow, never fully dissipating, always there. He had tried to ignore it, to focus on the music, but now it seemed to suffocate him, each note echoing in his head like a reminder of something lost, something he could never fully escape.
"Are you okay?" Joon-won's voice was softer this time, his concern clear as he stepped closer.
Ji-hoon shook his head slightly, though he knew Joon-won couldn't see the gesture. His hand moved slowly away from the piano, his fingers grazing the smooth surface as if feeling for something he couldn't find. He had played perfectly, and yet, it felt wrong—off in ways he couldn't articulate. He had tried to pour everything into the piece, every ounce of emotion, every shred of memory. But the moment the applause had started, it felt like the world had closed in on him. He was trapped in a performance he hadn't been ready for.
"I'm fine," Ji-hoon said finally, his voice hoarse. "Just... a little tired."
But Joon-won wasn't convinced. He stepped forward, standing directly in front of Ji-hoon, his brow furrowed in concern. "Ji-hoon, you don't look fine. You looked like you were somewhere else during the performance. Like you were lost in your head."
Ji-hoon sighed, turning his head slightly, though his eyes remained unfocused. The lights of the stage felt like a distant memory now. "It's just... it's been a long time since I've played in front of anyone," he said quietly, though the words didn't seem to come from him, but from someone else entirely. He was trying to convince himself more than Joon-won. "I guess I wasn't ready for it."
"You're being too hard on yourself," Joon-won said gently. "It's okay to not be perfect. But the fact that you did this, that you were able to perform, it's huge, Ji-hoon. You've been through so much, and this—it's a big step."
Ji-hoon didn't respond. Instead, he turned his back on Joon-won and the applause, walking slowly toward the edge of the stage. The bright lights that had once filled him with excitement now felt oppressive, like they were shining too brightly on a part of him he wasn't ready to expose. He could hear the soft murmur of the audience as they slowly began to filter out of the auditorium, their voices a dull hum in the background. But to Ji-hoon, it all felt far away, as though the world were slipping into another dimension, one where he could no longer connect with anyone or anything.
When he reached the edge of the stage, he paused, his breath shallow, his heart still beating in his ears. For the first time in a long while, he wasn't sure if he wanted to turn back. If he was honest with himself, he had no idea what he was looking for anymore. He had spent so long trying to play for himself, to find solace in the music, but now, standing here, he felt more lost than ever. The cologne, the memories, the music—it was all tangled together, a knot in his mind that he couldn't untangle.
"Ji-hoon," Joon-won called again, his voice reaching him from behind.
Ji-hoon didn't respond. His hand hovered over the edge of the stage, as if contemplating whether to step off it entirely or stay rooted to the spot, caught between two worlds—one that demanded perfection, applause, and recognition, and the other that offered nothing but isolation and uncertainty.
"I'm done," Ji-hoon muttered, the words slipping from his lips before he could stop them. "I'm done with all of this."
"Done?" Joon-won repeated, taking a cautious step forward. "What do you mean, done?"
Ji-hoon turned to face him, the darkness of the backstage area now surrounding him like a protective shield. "I don't want to perform anymore. I don't want to do any of this." He paused, his voice cracking slightly as the weight of his words hit him. "I don't even know who I'm doing this for anymore. The music... it doesn't feel like mine anymore. It doesn't feel like it's a part of me."
Joon-won took another step closer, his face filled with concern and confusion. "But the music is a part of you, Ji-hoon. It always has been. You can't just walk away from it."
Ji-hoon clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to hold back the frustration bubbling up inside of him. "I didn't ask for any of this, Joon-won. I didn't ask to be this person—the one who has to perform, who has to be perfect for everyone else. I didn't ask to be alone in this. But that's what I've become. And maybe it's just easier if I... if I just let it go."
Joon-won's expression softened, and he took another step forward, placing a hand gently on Ji-hoon's shoulder. "You're not alone, Ji-hoon. Not anymore. You don't have to carry all of this on your own."
Ji-hoon swallowed hard, his throat tightening. He could feel the warmth of Joon-won's touch, the steady pressure on his shoulder, and for the briefest moment, he allowed himself to feel it. But only for a moment. He couldn't allow himself to stay there, not when everything inside him was crumbling, not when he was so close to losing himself entirely.
"I have to go," Ji-hoon said abruptly, pulling away from Joon-won's touch. "I need to be alone."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked off the stage, leaving the applause behind him, leaving the audience, the performance, and everything that had once defined him.
And in that silence, as he stepped into the cold, dark hallway backstage, Ji-hoon wondered, for the first time, if he would ever find a way back to the music—or if he had already lost it forever.
Ji-hoon wandered through the corridors backstage, his hands trembling slightly as he tried to steady himself. His mind was in turmoil, each step taking him farther from the stage but deeper into his own confusion. He couldn't even remember the last time he felt in control of the piano or the music, let alone the performance. Every note he had played, every phrase he had crafted, felt like a distant echo, disconnected from his body. It was as if the music was no longer his to command.
He paused for a moment, leaning against the cold concrete wall. The dim light from the overhead bulbs cast long shadows, their edges sharp and unyielding, just like the ache in his chest. He had once found solace in the piano, in the sound of his fingers gliding across the keys, but now, it felt like something he had lost, something that had slipped through his fingers like sand. He couldn't grasp it anymore, no matter how hard he tried.
A soft shuffle of footsteps broke his reverie, and he turned his head instinctively. His heart skipped a beat when he realized it was Joon-won. The familiarity of his voice and presence had always been a comfort, but now it only added to the overwhelming sense of displacement Ji-hoon was feeling.
"You left the stage so abruptly," Joon-won said quietly, standing a few feet away. "Are you sure you're okay?"
Ji-hoon didn't answer immediately, unsure of how to put into words the chaos swirling inside him. The sound of the audience's applause had echoed in his mind ever since he left, but it felt hollow, empty, as if it was meant for someone else, not him. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could smell was that faint trace of cologne that lingered in the air, a constant reminder of something he didn't want to confront.
"I don't know, Joon-won," Ji-hoon admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He took a deep breath, the air heavy in his lungs. "I don't think I can do it again. Perform. Not like this."
Joon-won stepped closer, his presence a grounding force in the sea of confusion Ji-hoon found himself drifting in. "I don't want to push you, Ji-hoon, but I think you need to face what you're feeling. This… whatever it is that's eating at you… you can't just ignore it."
Ji-hoon clenched his fists, the frustration building inside him like a wave threatening to crash. "I don't know what to do with it, Joon-won. Every time I sit down at the piano, it's like I'm playing for someone else. I don't even know who that person is anymore."
Joon-won's voice softened, and there was a trace of sadness in it. "You've been through so much, Ji-hoon. You don't have to have all the answers right now. But you can't run away from this, from the music. It's a part of you. You don't have to perform for the audience or anyone else. You just have to play for yourself."
Ji-hoon shook his head, the weight of Joon-won's words pressing on him like a heavy stone. "How can I do that when it feels like the music is gone?" He let out a bitter laugh. "When it feels like it's never really been mine to begin with?"
The words hung in the air between them, and Ji-hoon could feel the truth of them settling deep in his chest. He had always played for others—the audience, the critics, the people who expected him to be perfect. But in doing so, he had lost something. Something crucial. And now, standing here in the quiet of the backstage area, he realized he was terrified that he might never find it again.
"Hey," Joon-won said, his voice warm with concern. "Do you remember the first time you played for me?"
Ji-hoon blinked, the question surprising him. The first time he had played for Joon-won? It felt like a lifetime ago. He thought back to the memory, trying to recall the details. He had been nervous back then, unsure if he could play as well as he wanted to. But Joon-won had listened, really listened, and his encouragement had been the first spark that reignited Ji-hoon's passion for music.
"I was terrible," Ji-hoon said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I was shaking the entire time."
Joon-won chuckled softly. "You weren't terrible. You were… raw. Honest. That's what made it special. You weren't trying to be perfect. You were just playing what you felt. And that's what made it real. That's the music you need to find again."
Ji-hoon exhaled slowly, the tension in his body easing slightly. "I don't know if I can do that anymore," he said quietly, looking down at his hands. The weight of his own words hung in the air like a thick fog, clouding his vision of what was possible.
"You can," Joon-won said firmly. "You just need to let go of what's holding you back. You don't have to be perfect. You just have to be."
Ji-hoon closed his eyes, his heart aching as the weight of Joon-won's words began to settle in. He wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that the music was still there, buried beneath the layers of self-doubt and fear. But a part of him was terrified of trying, terrified that he would fail again, that the piece of him he had lost would never be found.
But deep down, in the place where his music had once lived, Ji-hoon knew that Joon-won was right. He couldn't keep running from it. He couldn't keep letting the fear of what might happen stop him from finding his way back to the piano, back to the music that had once been his lifeline.
"I'll try," Ji-hoon said finally, his voice low but steady. "I'll try to find it again."
Joon-won smiled, the warmth of his approval radiating through the space. "That's all I'm asking for. Just… take your time. The music will come back when you're ready."
Ji-hoon nodded slowly, his fingers twitching at his sides, as if they were aching to touch the keys once more. The thought of returning to the stage, of facing the audience again, still made him uneasy, but the spark of hope Joon-won had kindled inside him was enough to keep him moving forward. He wasn't sure where this path would lead, but he knew he couldn't stay where he was, trapped in the silence of his own fear.
"Let's go back to the piano," Ji-hoon said, a quiet determination settling in his voice.
Together, they walked back toward the practice room, Ji-hoon's mind still racing, but with a flicker of something new—something he hadn't felt in a long time. A willingness to try, to search for the music again. It wouldn't be easy. But maybe, just maybe, it was worth the fight.
And as he approached the door to the practice room, Ji-hoon couldn't help but wonder if, just beyond it, the music would still be waiting for him.